


Learn to Love the Pain

by goddcoward



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Breeding Kink, First Time, Light Bondage, M/M, Marriage Hunt, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Overstimulation, Spitroasting, Virginity Kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-26
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2020-09-25 23:07:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20379625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goddcoward/pseuds/goddcoward
Summary: written for a request by kitsunesongs:[These are always so good! You said you would consider requests? Well your new abo fic makes me want to see you write something where Tobirama deals with being an omega by not hiding it, but instead just swanning through life and *daring* any alpha to try and think him lesser just for his dynamic. (I mean it also makes me want something where he gets captured by Izuna and Madara and they ties his arms behind his back and then kiss him and tease him and bite and suck him all over leaving marks and play with his nipples and suck him off and thoroughly eat him out until he's writhing on their laps begging them to just knot him already, but I pretty much always want that lol. It just made me really like your idea of omega biology, because I love intersex-omega's.)]





	1. checking my vital signs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kitsunesongs](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitsunesongs/gifts).

> title and chapter titles come from 'born for this' by the score!
> 
> kitsunesongs ily i hope this lives up to your expectations <3

Izuna’s fingers flicker through a familiar barrage of seals, and with a sharp inhale and a blustery gust of breath, fire blooms before him in a billowing supernova of red and blue. Tobirama’s favorite Suiton jutsu rises to meet it, a thirty-meter water dragon coalescing out of thin air to swallow his Grand Fireball whole. Their secluded little stretch of the forest explodes into a shroud of steam and boiling mist, superheated water vapor coiling around Izuna’s feet and blasting him in the face with blinding clouds of silver-white smoke.

Out of the dim, damp shadows, kunai materialize in sharp staccato bursts of metal, and with a curse he has to duck and weave and dodge, lest he risk getting stabbed. The knives fly past him to vanish into the darkness from whence they came, but he still has to be on his guard; knowing Tobirama, that was nothing more than a distraction. 

Sure enough, Senju darts out of the gauzy storm of steam not moments later, and it’s only Izuna’s lightning-fast reflexes that save him from the pointy end of his rival’s katana. Their swords clash and screech and scrape against each other with a shower of sparks and the hideous noise of steel against steel, but neither one of them gains or loses any ground. 

So far, so predictable.

They’re annoyingly well-matched, but something about Tobirama seems to be off, today, for reasons that Izuna can’t quite articulate. He’s just a fraction slower than he should be, just a little clumsier with his sword, a pale shadow of the ferocious white demon that usually meets him in combat.

It’s only when their swords slip against each other, bringing them so close together that their faces are nearly touching, that Izuna realizes what the issue is.

His scent, thicker and sweeter than its normal sugar-saltwater-ozone, like caramel and coming storms and cold ocean winds. His limbs, trembling almost imperceptibly as he fights against himself just as ardently as he fights against Izuna. His face, flushed pink and coated in a thin film of sweat not because of physical exertion in the cold weather, but because he has a fever.

He’s in _heat._

Tobirama has never made any effort to hide his dynamic. He’s embraced his status as an omega wholeheartedly, stern and strong and ever ready to prove his formidable ability to any fool so green as to underestimate his competency due to his sex. He’s ferocious in battle with a mind like no other, unparalleled in speed and creativity, and to be frank, it’s only Izuna’s superior raw strength and the predictive quality of the Sharingan that’s kept him alive during their skirmishes. He is not one to be overlooked simply because of his dynamic, and to make the mistake of actually doing so – there could be no death more certain. Or more _foolish._

(Izuna did it once during the first battle they’d engaged in after their presentations as alpha and omega, after enduring their first rut and heat respectively.

He still bears those scars. Nasty knots of old damaged tissue run the length of his torso from shoulder to hip, jagged, unclean, _vicious;_ he made the mistake of misjudging his rival, once upon a time, and it’s only due to a miraculous turn of fate that he survived doing so. Now, he wouldn’t dare to look down on any omega. Now, he knows to treat his foes according to their skill rather than their dynamic.

He’s learned his lesson already, and he doesn’t need to be taught twice.)

He should know better than to leave the safety of the Senju compound while in heat, though. 

Izuna can smell the slick soaking through his mission pants, can inhale and practically taste his helpless arousal. Now that he knows to look for them, the signs are obvious, and he berates himself for not noticing earlier; Tobirama’s reflexes are so slow because his every sense is overwhelmed with an intense surge of irrepressible attraction. He keeps shivering inside his armor because he’s too hot and too cold simultaneously, blood boiling with a high fever that only time and sex can heal. He’s not putting much attention and care into his offense and defense because he _can’t;_ he’s stretching himself to the very end of his limits just to force himself to stand and hold a sword, and that he came out to fight at all speaks loudly about his determination and his idiocy both.

He thinks for a moment that it’s a feint, a ruse, but there is no expression of chakra that can properly replicate the intoxicating intensity of the chemical secretions of an omega in heat, and Tobirama suddenly collapses to his knees with a cry, sword digging into the soft, loamy ground and head dropping as his body shakes violently.

It’s real. It’s all real. 

Izuna has never before seen Tobirama in a state of vulnerability, he realizes dully. He’s never seen the man as anything but the white demon he always is, has only ever known what mask he presents to the world when in combat. Now, though, he’s human. Now he’s exposed, unguarded, open.

It's the perfect opportunity to deliver the killing blow that could end the war and save his Clan from all but certain destruction, and the only thing he does is take a deep inhale, sinuses filling with the summer-storm smell of Tobirama’s heat.

It’s electrifying, and the salty-sweetness of his scent lingers even as he forces clumsy hands through a series of signs to perform a scent-suppression jutsu. Izuna has to parry a flurry of blows, each slower than the last, but his mind is gone, completely absorbed in the smell of fertile omega, and his concentration slips. Not for long, not for much, but it does, and even swamped by helpless arousal, Tobirama is an opportunistic motherfucker.

Izuna opens eyes he hadn’t realized he’d closed, expecting to see his rival collapsed in the dirt, panting and boneless, but there’s a sudden flash of golden light, a bright, fresh well of heat-scent from behind him, and an abrupt, agonizing pain exploding in his side from the bite of a blade.

“_Flying Thunder Slice!”_

It’s real, but it was still a goddamn distraction, because of _course._ It’s _Tobirama._ Izuna really should have known better.

He falls to his knees with a cry, clutching at his opened stomach, waiting for the second swing of the sword, the killing blow.

Moments later, the wind parts with the whistling sound of steel flying through air, and the world fades to blackness.


	2. drawing my battle lines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know that it's been a fair bit since september. i know that the old chapter 2 is a thing of the past. i know that this is less than 500 words. but it is content. please b kind everything is tough rn lmao bc if i don't get good grades in the coming semester i fail classes i need to graduate and i am NOT going to b a fifth-year senior since some of the underclassmen already know i'm supposed to be free this year

Madara digs his fingers into the thick fur collar, resisting the urge to press his face into it for what feels like the millionth time in the two days that have elapsed since he acquired it. Vulnerable in his heat, distracted with his victory over Izuna, Tobirama was easy enough to incapacitate, and even with Hashirama’s abilities as a medic-nin, he’ll be nursing those burns for at least a week and a half before they scar over. Madara had stolen his collar as a war trophy in some sort of revenge – for a terrifying moment in the midst of battle, he’d thought that Tobirama had genuinely decapitated Izuna instead of merely smacking him on the head with the flat of his blade with such force that he immediately crumpled to the ground, unconscious, and the Senju bastard had to pay for those moments of despair – but now that he has it, he’s really not sure what to do with it.

It's incredibly soft, white and fluffy and absolutely saturated with the pale demon’s heat-scent; he must have been using it to protect his scent-glands in the absence of a temporary mate during his heat, a fairly common practice among single omegas and one that Madara has never had much issue with before now.

It smells _very _good. Good enough to make him almost instantaneously hard when he brings it up to his nose. Good enough to have him thinking about Izuna’s rival as his brother lays collapsed in his sickbed, concussed and bleeding.

“Aniki,” Izuna groans, hand pressed flush over his face and features twisted into an expression of disgust, “you’re making the entire place smell like rut. _Go away, _I’m going to be _fine.”_

“You’ve got a head injury,” Madara snaps, his voice coming out an octave deeper than normal, traced with the edges of a growl. “Shut up and let me take care of you, you interminable idiot. You got yourself stabbed by the Senju bastard, and now you’re just going to have to deal with the repercussions of your actions.”

From the other side of the room, cousin Han snorts aloud, that bastard. “He’s going to recover fully, Madara-sama, I really do recommend that you go ahead and retreat to your quarters for the duration of your rut.”

“I’m _not in rut!”_ he yells, perhaps a little louder than he needs to, and he earns himself a pair of Sharingan glares, burning into his head like _he’s_ the unreasonable one here.

Bah. The _disrespect_ he receives from his relatives on a daily basis is well and truly disgusting. The old days where an entire Clan would hold an unshakeable reverence for the Head alpha are clearly gone, and as he gets up to leave for his rooms, Madara mourns this.

He takes the collar with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "brevity is the soul of wit, but your content does have to be at least ten characters long" ao3 shut uppppppppp i get it.....i'm dumb and cant write.........please leave me alone i am but a humble dyke dedicated to madatobi and also pmd sky and spore and the new pmd dx that comes out on friday because i remembered those games exist and they are literally SO sexy. anyway next up on the update schedule is gravity so keep your eyes peeled for that sometime before the year ends lmao


	3. going to war again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hehe crimes,. stupid izuna and co

The thick, spicy scent of alpha-rut lingers long after Aniki has stormed off down the hallway, and Izuna rubs at his nose. If he sneezes now, he could reopen his wound.

“That was _entirely_ your fault,” Han drawls, closing his eyes and cupping his lower face in his hands. “Gods, I don’t know how you _stand_ it. He smells like sweat and semen and gunpowder. We’ll be breathing it in for _days.”_

Izuna tips his head to the side, considering. He knows that most people are disgusted by the arousal-scent of close blood relatives, that most alphas are biologically hard-wired to respond to the smell of a potential competitor with uncontrollable aggression. Logically, Madara’s rut should have him boiling with irrational anger, especially since he’s gone and made off with Tobirama’s collar. There’s no way he won’t be defiling that, and the thought isn’t exactly _appealing,_ but it doesn’t bother him the way it should, the awareness that another alpha – his _elder brother_ – wants his omega.

“Makes sense if you think about it,” Izuna says, channeling chakra to his palm and pressing the heat against his side. The salve smeared over his stitches is made from a specially developed wax that reacts to warmth. Its healing properties accelerate at exposure to high temperatures, and although he won’t be attempting a true jutsu until Han is certain that his central coils sustained no damage, the mild relief is more than enough to satisfy him. “A relationship would be impossible if I weren’t at least minimally tolerant. Our mate will have to carry his claim. There’s just no way to hide it, and…”

Han’s scornful scowl is legendary, the envy of many an Uchiha medic, and Izuna raises his hands in some poor attempt to placate a man whose mother-hen tendencies are somehow worse than _Aniki’s. _Less than a moment passes before the omega is on top of him in a way that would be ten thousand percent sexier if he weren’t digging his sadistic healer’s hands _right into_ the same spot where Tobirama had been so kind as to try and kill him.

“Yes, yes, wouldn’t want to insult our esteemed Clan Head by erasing his ownership over the poor bitch who will have to put up with _both_ of you somehow. Amaterasu will be pleased about adhering to tradition, and I know the main family hasn’t had compatible siblings in generations, but it’s unbearable. I pity the omega who will spend the rest of their life suffocating in _eau de Madara.”_

Aniki is dramatic like the sky is blue, but this is just _blatant_ insolence: it’s simply unacceptable conduct, even for _Han,_ who fears neither god nor death and has never once pretended to hold any minute shred of respect for his elders and betters.

Izuna doesn’t get the chance to do more than open his mouth to retort before Han slaps his abdomen with enough force to qualify as Gentle Fist taijutsu. “Trust me, Izuna-sama. That will hurt _much_ less than whatever I’d have to do to you if I’d let you speak.”

Minutes pass before he has enough breath to talk again, and when the fuzzy black splotches clear from his field of vision, he looks over at the iryō-nin with a critical eye.

The awkward drape of loose healer’s robes doesn’t quite manage to obscure the curve of Han’s waist or the robust appeal of his hips, and even with that gorgeous dark hair swept back in a severe knot, it still catches the light, thick black curls shining bronze-gold-copper. Objectively he’s _beautiful,_ the most eligible of all Uchiha omegas, and Izuna finds no shame in appreciating his aesthetic, but…

“I can feel you staring, _Izuna._ Believe me when I tell you that there is not even a shadow of a chance.”

Izuna pouts. “Aw, sweetcheeks, not even a peck for the brave alpha who nearly died in the line of duty to protect you from the White Demon?”

The glare he’s skewered with could melt ice; it actually had on one memorable occasion involving an unfortunate Hagoromo kunoichi and home-brewed shōchū strong enough to dissolve lacquer made with chakra. “Stop trying to fool yourself, it was only cute years ago and it's definitely not now. If anyone needs protection from Senju Tobirama, it’s _you.”_

_“One time,”_ Izuna grumbles, hissing as Han presses hands coated in seafoam energy over his stomach. “He manages to get me _one time_ and no one can shut up about it.”

The iryō-jutsu floods his laceration with icy ecstasy, soothing the inflammation and stimulating tissue repair. There’s a short, sharp tug at something just beneath his ribcage, the sensation of a tenketsu channel realigning. Han pulls away, stitching shut the open wound as power flushes through his coils, the flow of chakra in his torso orienting itself properly.

“Hardly _one time,”_ the healer murmurs as he turns to rinse his hands clean of blood. “Not fucking _blind…”_

Izuna sits up as soon as his strength returns, pulling a face at the spasm of pain in his gut. He’ll be fine – this is not a killing wound, and it shouldn’t keep him from battle for more than a few weeks.

By the stony stillness of Han’s expression, he could very well be ashes already.

Izuna’s skull still rings hollow with the hurt of his concussion, but at least he has the good sense to wait until Han’s myriad of torturous medical murder instruments are stored before he shoves his foot in his mouth.

The gods must be protecting him, because just as he’s clearing his throat to speak, seconds before it would occur to him that this is a _terrible idea,_ he’s saved.

“One time,” Han growls, not looking up. The tension in his shoulders is taut to the point of snapping, muscles coiled beneath his skin like steel springs on the verge of snapping. “You really don’t know, do you?”

Izuna bristles: he knows plenty, and has the scars to prove it. _“Shocking as it may seem,_ I was actually _there_ when he stabbed me, yes—”

“With all due respect, Izuna-sama, _shut up.”_

The words are delivered with such steely certainty that his jaw closes independent of his own will, the intensity of Han’s irritation apparently strong enough to quiet him where silencing jutsus have failed. “You should be _dead,”_ the omega snaps, whirling around and leveling a scalpel at him. “Were it not for the dubious mercy of the White Demon you would be disintegrating on your pyre right now instead of laying in bed and whining. Your lord brother doesn’t see it, your rival doesn’t see it, and gods but if you aren’t the luckiest bastard on earth that Senju Hashirama doesn’t see it either. He has never truly fought you; Senju Tobirama is not a foe one simply _walks away_ from.”

A memory surfaces from the depths of his subconscious, the Sharingan recollection of a battle long since forgotten.

_For all of the radical changes puberty must have meant for Tobirama, now a mature omega in the wake of his first heat, he doesn’t actually look any different. He’s just as beautiful as he always has been, but now Izuna can **see** that, and now that he can see he can’t unsee. The scent of the Hagoromo beta he’d spent his rut with lingers in his nasal cavities even days after they’d separated. The kunoichi had been lovely, an attractive assassin with a pleasant smell and clever hands, but…_

_Tobirama is ethereal, sitting proud in solitary flawlessness and wearing his dynamic with all the majesty of a crown. He carries himself with nothing less than utter confidence in his perfection and complete surety in his skill. Izuna has never met any bitch even half as vicious, and he likely never will._

_Nothing has ever fascinated him more. Tobirama is untouchable, a perfect example of an omega to be avoided like the plague, but the futility of combat only magnifies Izuna’s intrigue. Senju omegas are rare and valuable, said to be blessed with abundant fertility so profound that their pups can manifest kekkei genkai out of nothingness, producing novel bloodline limits that have no history in any known heritage. His potential as a mate and a mother is astounding._

_There’s just one small problem._

_Tobirama keeps vanishing into the residual ozone mist of high-level Raiton jutsus, flickering from shadow to shadow and never coming close enough to engage in proper battle. The clearing is blanketed in a tangled net of ninja wire, kunai, and shuriken, but neither of them have landed a single blow since they first crossed blades nearly fifteen minutes ago._

_That changes in an instant when Tobirama materializes within stabbing distance and raises his sword as he scowls._

_Izuna’s nose is exponentially more sensitive than it was a week and a half ago, and he has yet to fully adjust to the olfactory capability of the grown alpha he has become in that time. Even the faintest and stalest of scents are almost overwhelming; although the seal dampening his sense of smell suppresses most of them entirely and drastically inhibits the rest, his head is still ringing with a new excess of stimulation._

_He is miserably unprepared to collect himself when he inhales enough Tobirama-scent to fill his chest to bursting and almost instantly loses himself to mindless aggression._

_When Izuna launches himself at his rival and begins to burrow into the warmth between Tobirama’s fur collar and bare throat, the last thing he expects is **encouragement.** Looking back, he’ll realize that Tobirama’s submission must have been an action of gratuitous reflex, but in the moment he is only aware of a heavy fog of pheromones and the addicting salty-sweetness of omega blood welling up beneath his canine teeth._

_The blatant violence of Tobirama answering his advance with an electrified trench knife is considerably more erotic than sharp-force trauma has any right to be. The initial stab of paralytic chakra leaves Izuna vulnerable, but his thoughts don’t stray from Tobirama’s impeccable form. Apparently the allure of a strong, sexy omega crawling over him is not lessened if the omega is trying to murder him._

_Rapid blood loss doesn’t drag him away from consciousness before an angry snarl laced with hurt reaches his ears._

Izuna had always interpreted Tobirama’s irrational rage as defensive, the vengeful wrath of an omega touched without provocation by a known hostile, but – if that were the case, he Han is right. He should have been killed then and there for the offense of unwanted intimacy. “You mean—”

“Gods, you’re _dense,”_ Han snaps, stalking over to the cot and ripping away bloodied bandages. “You’d been smelling like sex for _days._ We only got the scent of that kunoichi’s slick off of you with a jutsu that obliterates contaminants, moron. I know you read your brother’s trashy romance novels – no, don’t even _try_ and argue with me while I’m fondling your stab wound – and I know you only force yourself to do that in the first place because of your sad obsession with crimes of passion. The White Demon didn’t kill you because he _wants you alive,_ and he came so close to succeeding because he noticed you’d been knotting other bitches.”

Izuna blinks, graciously deigning to ignore the various insults against his character in favor of rewinding countless memories, raking through his Sharingan recordings to examine his interactions with Tobirama from another angle. The idea of _jealousy_ is _ridiculous—_

“What the fuck,” Izuna says flatly, absently filtering through countless instances where Tobirama ignored tactical advantages and strategic openings to slip closer and closer. “What the fuck. What the _fuck?”_

He needs to talk with Aniki.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't know how to feel abt this. might edit it so i'm dropping a warning now: this chapter may change mysteriously and magically

**Author's Note:**

> make sure to leave comments + kudos if you enjoyed! they really do help me keep writing and producing content for yall


End file.
